Portrait Of An Immigrant
Many years ago a friend who worked for a company that operated trains in the northeastern United States showed me a letter that he found in the company’s archives. It was written during the 1930s from a manager to a man who was supervising the building of a bridge. It assured the supervisor that he had the authority to fire his Italian crew and replace them with “white men.”
Paean For Tumacacori
Last week I spent a few hours visiting the Mission San José de Tumacácori. It was established in 1691 in the Santa Cruz River Valley of southern Arizona. Following a stormy history involving a Pima Indian rebellion, Mexico’s War of Independence from Spain, and Apache raids, it was abandoned by 1848 and began falling into disrepair. Preservation and stabilization efforts began in 1908 when the area was declared a National Monument.
I’ll let my photos and a few quotes from the mission’s early years speak for themselves, and I’d love to hear what you take away from them.
Great Service Times Three
Some years ago I consulted to a company that wanted to improve customer service. The team that designed the improvement program decided to forgo theory, models, talks, videos, expert input, and any of the other paraphernalia that generally populates training programs. Instead, we gathered employees together, asked them to tell stories about great service that they had received, and then asked them what they might emulate from the stories and what they needed in order to do that. You know it when you see it.
I count this among the best experiences of my organization development career. I heard some wonderful stories and the company found evidence that the program was a success.
Meaning-Making Is Both Blessing And Curse
…my mind often buzzes with questions about mundane events…
Red Mountain is in close-up view from a picnic area on the southern bank of the Salt River a few miles north of Mesa, Arizona, where the Bush Highway enters the south-west corner of the nearly three million acre Tonto National Forest. I sat there alone at a weathered and rickety picnic bench one day last week, my attention divided between the mountain and a narrow strip of river where a breeze rippled the surface and trout leaped. I had a notebook in front of me to record what I saw, thought and felt.
With A Thousand Eyes
A few lines from Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha have taken residence in my mind thanks to a comment from Dan Oestreich to a previous post. I guess I am supposed to pass the lines on.
Tenderly, he looked into the rushing water, into the transparent green, into the crystal lines of its drawing, so rich in secrets. Bright pearls he saw rising from the deep, quiet bubbles of air floating on the reflecting surface, the blue of the sky being depicted in it.
My Place In The Grand Scheme Of Things
Two recent experiences showed me just how insignificant I am when measured on a scale more grand than my own immediate concerns (which can loom as monumental if I let them).
Grains Of Sand
The first experience was stimulated by an exhibit in the underground Johnson Geo Centre in St. John’s, Newfoundland. The exhibit consisted of four clear acrylic towers, standing in a line, each of them containing a quantity of sand, each grain of sand representing one year.
Is It Me, Or You, Or An Antelope?
The word “you” acts as a container. It holds the actual you, plus my perception of you, plus whatever parts of myself I project onto you. When I use the container–when I say or think “you”–I make no differentiation between those three, and so I am never aware of referring to one or the other. It is all just “you.” No wonder I become confused about who you are.
During a visit to Wildlife World in Phoenix, I found myself taking portraits of the animals rather than just snapping photos. I was looking for something in their faces, particularly in their eyes. What is in there that I can see, that is available to a human?
Hanging Out With Hoodlums And Hanging On With Rock And Roll
Sometimes it is good to let go, and sometimes it is good to hang on.
The Scout (bless her scouty nature) found Hoodlums Music, an independently owned music store in Tempe, Arizona, a ten minute drive from our home. I’m like that kid in the candy shop in there. They specialize in the old stuff, stuff I used to have on vinyl.
And the people who work there know the music. I was chatting with one of them when I spied a Todd Rundgren album. I said, “Geez. I’ll bet I haven’t thought about Todd Rundgren in thirty years.” He said, “That’s OK. Nobody has.” Priceless.
